Refraction
by Mythdefied
Summary: When Strife starts stalking Deimos, Deimos starts to lose it. (Slash, Deimos&Strife)


General Comments: Another weird idea from an equally weird mind. I just had this...image of Deimos being freaked out by Strife, and this little fic spiraled off from there. 

Many, _many_ thanks to Candace for hitting me over the head with the Big Book of Plot on this one. You won't notice anything odd about a certain minor character in this story, and that's exactly how it should be. 

Warnings: PG-13 for language 

Disclaimers: No money, no ownership, no infringement, no sue. 

Archive: ff.net, RCoS, my LJ, my site.   


*************   
Refraction   
by Erin   
November 2003   
************* 

__________________________ 

Refraction: _noun_; the action of distorting an image by viewing through a medium.   
__________________________ 

  
  


Deimos had never thought his eyes were cold, until the day he saw them on someone else. 

He answered his father's summons, appearing just inside the doors to Ares' main temple -- and narrowly avoiding a collision with Discord. 

"Watch it," she snapped, jerking away from any contact with him. He stuck his tongue out at her and got a crinkle of her nose in response, but she seemed distracted, not following up with any of the insults he would've expected from her and it immediately put him on guard. 

"What's up?" he asked warily. 

"Ares called in a favor." She crossed her arms over her chest, almost seeming to pout. "I thought Hades paid that one off decades ago." 

"Hades?" Not that Deimos had ever met him, but the God of the Underworld tended to be bad news. 

Instead of answering verbally, Discord flicked a hand at something off to Deimos' left, then, shaking her head in apparent annoyance, she disappeared in her customary flash of red light. Blinking at the lingering brightness, Deimos turned to look -- and found himself caught in a direct gaze. 

Deimos had to wonder if that's what people saw when they looked at him, that cold intensity. But it was weirding him out so maybe it was different on him? On _that_ face though...those eyes were like chips of blue ice, studying him frankly, and he had to look away, giggling nervously under his breath. 

Ares appeared then, and immediately started in on his latest plot to get at Hercules. Deimos tried to pay attention, keeping his gaze focused entirely on his father, but it was all pretense. He couldn't ignore the way his hair was standing up on the back of his neck, the prickling feeling on his skin, all telling him that against the far wall, Strife was still standing there, watching him. 

__________________________ 

Ducking quickly behind the half-demolished stone well, Deimos' cringed as a warlord went sailing overhead to land in the lake opposite him with a resounding splash. That looked like one of Ares' favorites and man, was he gonna be pissed. Actually, the whole situation would probably accomplish that reaction, but out of commission warlords on top of it was not going to go over well. 

At least Deimos had gotten out of the line of fire. The instant he'd seen the plan going south, he'd looked to save his own ass, leaving Discord to fend for herself. He couldn't just run off though, not until he'd seen the final outcome so he could give a decent report to Ares. Unfortunately, father or not, Deimos didn't see Ares going easy on him with this one. 

Another warlord went flying, this time hitting the middle of the lake. The resulting impact caused a small tidal wave that lapped at Deimos' brown leather boots. His eyebrows rose, impressed despite the situation. Hercules really got some distance when he was annoyed. 

He heard a nearby explosion and realized that Discord was still in the game. It would look better in the long run, even when they lost, if he threw himself back into the mix, but he couldn't make himself do it. He laughed under his breath, more of a nervous titter really, hands clenching and unclenching on his knees as he tried to figure out what to do. He couldn't leave, but he couldn't go back into that chaos out there either. He was afraid. That's what it came down to. He _was_ Fear, but it was leaking out of his control again and affecting him. If he was really lucky, maybe it would affect everyone in the vicinity too and they'd all go away. 

It took him a few moments to realize that the goosebumps on his bare legs weren't directly a result of his own fear, not totally. The hair stood up on his arms and Deimos knew; someone was watching. He'd been staring at the ground between his outspread legs, not really seeing it as he thought, but now he abruptly focused and his head snapped up. 

Leaning against a thick tree growing by the lake, Strife looked at him. He appeared utterly casual in his pose, arms crossed with a strange smirk turning up the corners of his lips. 

Deimos froze, feeling like a deer caught in front of a racing chariot. Strife wasn't supposed to be here. Deimos had heard Ares specifically order Strife to stay out of this, to devote his attentions elsewhere. But Strife was here, watching him, and Deimos didn't know what to do. 

Stay? Run? Fight? That smirk was so unnerving that Deimos suspected only the last two were really options, and given his normal amount of "courage," it was probably better to go with the last one. He couldn't make himself move though, even with the way those, cold, cold eyes made him shiver. 

Then something abruptly changed, a subtle shift in Strife's position. It was so simple really. He nodded, just the tiniest bit, an upwards motion that didn't take his eyes from Deimos. Deimos saw it, realized how focused on Strife he had to have been _to_ see it, and then followed that nod, looking up. 

Discord was hurtling downwards at an increasingly high rate of speed, her scream becoming more audible with each passing second as she fell. She was going to land right where he sat. Sparing a sliver of admiration for the strength Hercules must've used to achieve that height, Deimos shoved off the side of the well and dived straight forward, towards the lake. 

He landed face-first in the shallow, algae-covered water at the edge but quickly rolled out, sitting up and wiping the scum off his face. At that instant Discord crashed down near the lee of the well, where he'd been moments before. She lay there for a few seconds, apparently dazed if the pained groan and confused blinking were anything to go by. 

Deimos wondered if he should offer to help her up, or maybe he could just let Strife do it. Except, when he looked, Strife was gone. No big displays of power, no showy sparkles and lights, just gone as innocuously as he'd arrived. It gave Deimos more goosebumps. 

"She's still moving, Herc." 

Deimos' attention snapped back to the scene in front of him, only it had changed. Discord was starting to push herself up and Iolaus was standing near the well, watching her warily. Then his gaze met Deimos'. 

"Hey, Herc, you might wanna put down those mercenaries; Deimos is over here too." 

Well, it looked like he'd be participating now whether he wanted to or not. Deimos pulled himself to his feet, called up a fireball and hoped Hercules wouldn't get a chance to use him as a discus. 

__________________________ 

Yelling, shouting, and then more yelling; Ares' fury echoed through the temple. And what could Deimos do but cringe and take it? He knew he'd screwed up. So had Discord but as always she managed to look contrite and supremely bored at the same time, and because she was Ares' twin, he allowed her that small amount of insolence. Deimos wasn't as fortunate. 

He'd learned early on that it was bad to talk back or to give excuses. Of course, he still did both because he got scared and tended to babble, but for right now he was holding it in fairly well, biting back any words that tried to rise to the surface. If Ares kept up the screaming though, Deimos had no doubts that he'd eventually try to defend himself and end up thrown across the room or through a wall. Being the God of War's son meant a distinct lack of tolerance on Ares' part for mistakes. Deimos wondered what kind of standards Strife was held to. 

As if thinking his name summoned him, Strife walked out of the aether in a muted cascade of blue flame, the first such display Deimos had seen from him. 

"What're you doing here?" Ares demanded, cutting off his tirade at Deimos and Discord to focus on Strife. 

"Reporting in," Strife answered with a careless shrug. He crossed his arms on the back of Ares' throne and propped his chin up on them. "You are still interested in Sparta, right?" 

Deimos' eyes widened slightly, not at the sarcasm in Strife's tone, but at the fact that Ares did nothing about it save scowl. Was that the sort of interaction they normally had? Did Ares always allow Strife so much leeway? Deimos almost asked Discord. She only stood a couple feet away and she looked vaguely interested in Strife's appearance, or maybe that was just a touch of relief Deimos was seeing. It was possible Discord was simply glad to have Ares' attention directed elsewhere. If that were the case, anything Deimos said might bring Ares' focus back on them and he wanted to avoid that. He hated being yelled at. Besides, Discord probably wouldn't say anything helpful to him right now. He knew she was still angry about him abandoning her to Hercules during the fight -- the occasional "glare of death" she'd thrown at him while Ares ranted proved that -- regardless of the fact that she would've done the same if the opportunity had presented itself. He'd have to give her a day or two to cool off if he wanted anything resembling a civil conversation. 

"Well?" Ares prompted impatiently when Strife said nothing further. 

"It's all taken care of," Strife replied easily, showing no concern for Ares' mood. 

"What do you mean, 'taken care of?' I told you to keep an eye on King Polydektes; how can that be just taken care of?" Ares demanded. 

Strife shrugged again. "He's dead." 

There was utter silence for long moments and Deimos had a very bad feeling about that. When Ares finally spoke, it was in a tone so completely calm and reasonable that Deimos instinctively took a step back, cringing in anticipation of the explosion sure to follow. 

"You killed the king?" Ares asked. 

"Oh shit!" Discord whispered, and abruptly vanished. The accompanying flash of light didn't distract Ares though and that wasn't at all a good sign. Deimos wondered if maybe he shouldn't leave too. Ares hadn't dismissed him but he didn't want to be around if his father really did blow his top. 

"I sent you to _watch_ that mortal, and you killed him?" Ares hand moved down to curl around the handle of his sword. 

Strife laughed. It was such a horribly inappropriate sound that Deimos could only stare in shock, wondering just how crazy Strife really was. 

"'Course I didn't off him, Unc," Strife said, his smirk widening. "It was an accident -- a _real_ one. 'K?" 

"What accident?" And Ares tone was suddenly tense, filled with suspicion and anger, but not that frighteningly calm tone from seconds before. 

Deimos relaxed, just a fraction. Ares showing his anger was far better than when it wasn't visible; he'd be less violent. 

"Spilled water, flight of stairs, broken neck; pretty straight forward. Sorry," Strife said, although he plainly wasn't. 

"And how exactly did this 'accident' happen with you there, huh?" Ares moved closer to the throne but Strife didn't seem intimidated, remaining right where he was. "It never occurred to you to stop it? You _were_ there the entire time, right?" 

"Well, maybe I stepped out for a second or two," Strife admitted. At that moment his gaze flicked over to Deimos -- and he winked. 

And just like that, Deimos was completely freaked out. He didn't care what Ares did to him for leaving; pulling together his concentration, he disappeared. 

__________________________ 

What was it with Strife? Deimos couldn't figure it out, couldn't figure Strife out. It was like every time Deimos turned around, there Strife was, watching him. Okay, well not _every_ time because that would've been hard to do unless Strife completely blew off his assignments, which Deimos knew he didn't. 

Whatever came of that whole, "The king is dead. Oops," thing, Deimos never knew. Strife looked just fine the next time Deimos saw him -- sitting on a retaining wall, studying Deimos from a distance while Deimos proceeded to screw up his job because the staring creeped him out -- so whatever Ares had done hadn't had any lingering affects. Unfortunately, it also hadn't seemed to impress upon Strife the idea that ducking out on his job to stalk Deimos wasn't a good idea either. Of course Strife was getting away with it too, coming back with reports to Ares about completed assignments or information from spy missions; there were no further repeats of the mishap with the Spartan king that Deimos heard about, and if it'd happened when he wasn't around, Discord would have filled him in gleefully. As it was, she wasn't in the best of moods because Strife was doing so well now. Success for any one of them usually meant a lack of advancement or notice for the rest of them. Except, Deimos wasn't quite sure if it was the same this time. 

The assignments Ares was giving Strife, to watch kings and warlords, spy on one or two of the minor gods, keep an eye on Xena when she was taking a break in her home town, those were all the sort of jobs Ares handed out when he wanted to keep someone out of the way or punish them. It was nothing less than busy work, maybe holding slight importance but nothing compared to the jobs he sent Deimos and Discord out on. They were seeing the real action, going toe to toe with Hercules, helping Ares in battles by directing or fighting alongside the soldiers, sitting in on and giving their opinions during strategy sessions -- Strife often showed up during those but his advice was never asked and he never offered either, just sat there watching, twirling a dagger, and all too often, staring at Deimos. 

For whatever reason, Ares had his former lieutenant back amongst the living, and wasn't putting him to use. If Strife had any bad memories of being dead, he wasn't showing them and there was nothing that seemed to be interfering with his work -- unless you counted his frequent side-trips for Deimos-stalking, but that didn't seem to be causing him any problems either. Of course, Deimos realized he was seeing it all from an outside perspective. Just because he didn't see anything wrong with Strife didn't mean that there wasn't a problem. So that left him back where he'd started, knowing next to nothing. 

It was just.... Deimos didn't know Strife. The only things he knew about his cousin was what he'd heard in passing from Discord, and the occasional mention by Ares. He'd never met Strife, hadn't even _seen_ him until the day he was sprung from Hades' realm. 

Deimos had grown up in Aphrodite's temple. He'd been, technically, raised with his brother Cupid; brother only in name. Other than being blond and tanned, they were almost nothing alike. Deimos skinny and jittery, Cupid buff, sporting a set of cool wings, and so full of self-confidence that every head, mortal and god both, turned to him the instant he walked into a room. Deimos had never shared that trait and he wouldn't have been comfortable drawing that kind of attention anyway. 

And Cupid was all about getting attention. Wandering around with those pouty lips, dark scowls and hanging with the wrong crowd; maybe it was something Cupid had inherited from Ares, or maybe he was just finding other ways to get noticed -- like he couldn't just flick a wing and have nymphs and satyrs falling at his feet, drooling. Whatever Cupid was doing though, he was just playing at being bad. Deimos _was_ bad. Or at least he'd thought he was, could be, maybe. It was what he'd felt when he'd watched Cupid, stalking around putting on his naughty little airs. It was like he'd been able to see how false it was, how much of a poser Cupid really was underneath that sulky exterior. But he hadn't been able to pin down just what it was that made them so different, what the dividing line was between fake and real. 

Others seemed to recognize it though; maybe it was an instinctual thing. The same gods and immortals that fawned over Cupid with his bad boy attitude steered a wide path around Deimos. It wasn't anything he did deliberately and he couldn't figure out what it was about him that did it, but if he wanted company, Deimos had to actively search it out instead of waiting for it to flock to him like Cupid did. 

They weren't anything resembling close, he and his brother; most of the time Cupid didn't even notice Deimos, but on the rare occasions he had, he'd tried to draw Deimos into his sort of lifestyle, but it just wasn't Deimos' thing. He had no problems tossing back a drink or two and doing the horizontal hustle with whatever warm body happened by, but doing that twenty-four/seven wasn't his scene. He found his own entertainment in the way he could make people uncomfortable, god or mortal, just by being in the same room. It wasn't a sure thing, but when it worked, he could bring whole orgies to a grinding halt just by hanging around. It was fun, but he'd often wished he could get a grip on whatever it was that gave him that kind of power. 

That wish had been answered a couple years back when Ares had showed up unannounced and ordered Deimos to be brought before him. 

Deimos had cringed and tittered nervously under the scrutiny of a father he'd only met twice before. Ares had just stared at him, arms crossed over his chest, looking far too dangerous and intimidating in all that black leather and weapons for someone like Deimos who'd grown up surrounded by pink and frills. Deimos had always been told that he was more inclined to his father's side of the family, but that day he really hadn't been able to see it, and when Ares told him that he'd be working for War from now on, Deimos hadn't known what to think. 

It had all turned out fine, of course. Working for Ares gave him outlets he hadn't had while living with Aphrodite, a chance to really delve into his nature, discover just what being the God of Fear was all about. It had just been a title when he'd lived with his mother, not something that defined him, not like it did now. He hadn't realized just how bored he'd been, hanging around with Aphrodite's side of the family. There'd been nothing there he could really relate to, nothing to help his nature develop, but Ares had given that to him. Showed him how to frighten mortals, how he could draw power from that fear. And if he got good enough, Ares had hinted that Deimos could attract worshipers, build up a power base of his own. That time was still far off though. Deimos could control that aura of his now, but not all of the time, not when he was afraid. He still had to get a firm grip on his own nature before he started branching out, looking to make a name for himself. But at least he had the opportunity now, which was more than he'd gotten ensconced in his mother's temples. He hadn't even realized he'd resented her until Ares took him away from there. Now he wouldn't willingly return there. His home was with Ares. Or at least it had been. 

From day one on the job, Deimos had found himself compared to Strife. Discord only mentioned it a time or two, enough for Deimos to understand that he and Strife shared similar looks, but he was almost certain she'd been about to call him "Strife" more than once and that was creepy. She seemed to get over it as he became more a part of Ares' household, but he always felt that she was far too reminded of Strife when she looked at him, same as Ares. 

Ares never spoke of Strife except to warn Deimos to learn from his cousin's mistakes, but sometimes when Ares looked at him, Deimos thought he saw a look there that seemed almost...regretful. And maybe he hadn't been seeing things because hadn't Ares called in a favor to get Strife back? 

And Strife was back. In every sense. He did his jobs with a confidence born of years working with Ares, something Deimos didn't have. Strife was by no means perfect though; Ares frequently expressed his "displeasure" with the way Strife did something, but he also didn't punish Strife the way he would Deimos; he let Strife duck the fireballs and fists and get away with it. If Deimos tried that -- which he had when he first came to Ares' employ -- he'd end up plastered to the ceiling, held there by currents of burning electricity until he learned not to anger Ares further. 

The favoritism was disturbing, and in more than one way. Strife was getting the better treatment, but not the better jobs, those still fell to Discord, and more often, Deimos. Deimos had originally been brought in to take Strife's place, but now that Strife was back...Deimos was still taking his place. And that's when Deimos realized he was in trouble. 

Strife's watching, observing and stalking began to make and abrupt and frightening kind of sense. Strife was back and he had every reason to want his old position back as well, to want the good jobs and the recognition that came with it, to be at Ares' right hand again. Deimos was in the way of that and he wasn't as good as Strife to begin with, a double insult. Strife was going to find a way to "remove" him from his position, Deimos was now absolutely certain of it. Strife was studying him for weaknesses, and Deimos was the first to admit, albeit to himself, that he had plenty of weaknesses to exploit. At some point Strife was going to attack, directly or surreptitiously, and Deimos would find himself out of job and Ares' good graces, if he was lucky, dead, if he wasn't. 

That realization served to make Deimos even more unsettled by Strife's appearances. It was no longer just creepy, it was plain frightening. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. Survive, of course, but how? He couldn't go to Ares for help, his father would just smack him for being such a coward and tell him to learn to deal or go back to hiding behind Aphrodite's skirts. Discord might listen but she was ambitious and could very well see Deimos' fear as a way to get to him, so Deimos had nowhere to turn. He was on his own. 

__________________________ 

Illusions were fun. Disguising yourself as some non-descript mortal, or as a specific one, was one of Deimos' favorite parts of his job. Often he'd be using the guise of some dead friend or family member to scare mortals into going along with Ares' plans. Sometimes he'd make himself look half-rotted, maggot covered or bloated just for the added affect, but that only worked on certain mortals, others passed out or were too scared and disgusted to function. Mortals were strange that way. More often though, he'd just wear some stranger's face to go among the mortals, starting rumors that spread fear throughout the population, causing riots and inciting people to turn on their neighbors, friends and family. Fear was a more powerful motivator than love. He got an immense amount of satisfaction from knowing that. 

Deimos did fine when he was on a job by himself, it was when he had to work with others, or against Hercules or Xena that he had problems. Discord and he just didn't get along too well, ambition and competition getting in the way of the job and one of them always screwed something up, but at least she did it as often as he did. It wasn't that they hated each other, or even had a really strong dislike, it was just...they were both trying to be the best and it almost always ended with them tripping each other up. Hercules and Xena, well, as much as Deimos hated to admit it, those two were clever. They knew how the gods worked and could spot godly influence ten leagues away on a dark night. The usual things that fooled mortals didn't work on them, especially illusions, and Deimos had yet to figure out what would work. 

Crouched down amongst the brush outside of the camp, Deimos watched Hercules and Xena go about their little mortal rituals of cleaning up and eating. Their little sidekicks were nowhere in sight and Deimos had thought this a perfect time to watch these two. He was supposed to be finding a way to delay them, make it impossible for them to reach Achaia in time to stop the battle there near the coast. There were plenty of things he could be doing, like spooking their horses so they'd spend all night hunting down their transportation and not sleeping; sleep seemed to be so important to non-divinities, they couldn't function without enough of it. He could do the "ghost" routine of strange noises in the dark, but he didn't think that would do anything beyond raising their suspicions. The problem was that his options were limited with these two. At the moment he couldn't come up with anything better than crouching there, watching them, hoping for a break. 

"Hit them in dreamland." 

Deimos almost shrieked in fright. Fortunately losing his balance and falling over in surprise cut off the sound before it could escape him. Spitting dead leaves out of his mouth, Deimos had the presence of mind to check and see that neither Xena nor Hercules had heard anything -- they were still talking as they set out their bedrolls -- before addressing the threat before him. Strife was crouched next to where Deimos had been, watching him with an amused smirk. 

Scooting back, putting a few feet between them, Deimos sat up fully and brushed dirt and leaves from his leathers, a nervous gesture that gave him room to think, focused his concentration instead of just screaming and running like he wanted to. His hand was shaking, he noticed. He quickly clenched it into a fist, hoping that Strife hadn't seen it, except he probably had. Deimos forced himself to look up, to meet those icy blue eyes. 

"They see it coming when they're awake, so get them when they're not," Strife said, his voice low, compelling, words succinct. "Dreams are on the surface; creep right in there and do your thing. Scare them until they wake up screaming and can't sleep again for nights." His smirk turned into a grin that was truly scary to see, a wide, evil, toothy expression that made the Deimos' skin crawl. "Get in there, dig around 'till you find what makes them shiver in the dark." Strife leaned forward then, bracing his hand on the ground between them. 

Too much. Strife was talking to him, looking at him like a starving man who'd just found lunch and this time Deimos couldn't stop the yelp of fear that escaped. It was embarrassingly high-pitched and instantly Hercules and Xena dropped what they were doing. Xena drew her sword and started towards where Deimos and Strife were barely concealed by the brush. Deimos didn't wait to be discovered, he just vanished, grateful for the excuse to get out of there. He'd find a way to deal with the Heroic Duo tomorrow and maybe he'd luck out and Strife wouldn't show up. 

Yeah, and maybe Ares was about to step down and declare Discord the next God of War. 

__________________________ 

It was bad enough when Strife was just stalking him, watching, but now that he'd decided to actually talk, Deimos was utterly freaked out. Strife couldn't just walk up and start a conversation, he had to appear out of nowhere with absolutely no warning. It happened more and more when Deimos was out on a job. Strife would suddenly just _be_ there, seemingly offering advice. But Deimos wasn't fooled. The way Strife looked at him.... Strife was hunting and Deimos was the prey. Maybe he thought he could trap Deimos by "advising" him, but Deimos was smarter than that. He wouldn't be lulled into believing Strife's words when his cousin's face said something totally different. Deimos was determined not to be the easy mark Strife apparently thought he was, even if Strife could scare him now like nothing else. 

His work was suffering. Loud noises and sudden moves had him jumping and yelling every time and Ares was starting to give him funny looks; Discord was laughing outright. Deimos was having a hard time keeping his concentration together long enough to accomplish anything job related. His own shadow was scaring him more than he was frightening mortals. Paranoia was fast becoming his new name as he worried that Strife waited around each corner. The problem was that sometimes Strife really was there. 

Always watching, studying, and now talking, and Deimos soon decided that a brave front was well and good, but he wasn't all that brave to begin with. So instead of listening to Strife talk, he began vanishing the instant Strife turned up, not giving his cousin a chance to say anything because Deimos didn't want to risk being caught in whatever trap Strife was devising. He did have to deal with Strife's presence during the meetings Ares called to discuss various battles or wars or just Hercules, but Deimos did his best to ignore Strife and concentrate on whatever Ares had to say, or at least putting on a good show of it. He never really could ignore Strife and as a result he missed at least half of what was discussed and that was showing in his job as well. 

He was starting to think this was Strife's plan, to make Deimos so terrified that he couldn't do his job and Ares had to dismiss him, thereby clearing the way for Strife to take his old position. It was working too. Ares was fairly used to his subordinates screwing up, but he had his limits and Deimos was sure he was reaching them. 

Even the few mortals Deimos dealt with on a semi-regular basis were starting to notice that things weren't right. Iolaus was getting a real laugh out of it, making sudden moves and noises whenever Deimos' attention was directed elsewhere in a fight, making Deimos stumble and yelp every time. Xena never said anything when Deimos started at the slightest noise, just raised her eyebrows, but Gabrielle was fighting not to laugh out loud these days. Deimos vowed that the moment he got his life straightened back out, he was going to put some serious fear into their lives. Of course at the moment he was more worried about his own; they could wait. 

Something would have to give soon though, Deimos knew that, whether it would be Ares' temper or his own sanity, Deimos wasn't sure. He just knew that he was reaching the end of his own endurance, frayed nerves and all, and he still didn't know what to do about it. Either he'd have to leave Ares' service, and he wasn't sure that was an option -- one didn't tend to walk away from the God of War in once piece -- or he'd have to stand up to Strife, and that didn't seem to be much of an option either. He'd lose either way. 

Deimos finally decided that he'd have to take a chance, risk making himself more vulnerable in order to find out more about his "rival." It wasn't something he'd normally consider but he was out of options and felt like he was losing his mind. He wasn't going to give up without a fight, even if it terrified him. 

__________________________ 

Deimos was pretty sure he looked like an idiot, just standing there and staring, but he really couldn't make himself do anything else. He'd seen some weird things since coming to work for Ares, mortals from other dimensions, stones that could make a minor god more powerful than Zeus himself, but this...well, it was definitely going on Deimos' top ten list of "truly strange shit." 

"Close your mouth and make yourself useful," Discord snapped at him, annoyance coloring her tone. "Hand me that bowl of blue seeds there." She nodded towards the table by the door. 

It was covered with small clay bowls filled with seeds of various sizes and shapes, dyed in a rainbow of colors. Deimos saw at least three bowls of blue seeds. Unsure which one she wanted and a more than a little freaked out by the whole thing, he just grabbed all three bowls and carried them over to the bed. 

"Uh, here you go," he said, carefully setting the bowls down on the reddish bed coverlet. 

Discord glanced up from the white dress she held, then glared at him. "I said the _blue_ seeds, you moron. I didn't ask for the green and aqua ones too." 

"Oh, sorry." He giggled nervously. They all looked blue to him. 

She rolled her eyes. "So what d'you want, anyway? And don't tell me 'nothing' because you don't wander into my room over nothing." Grabbing the nearest bowl, she began stringing the seeds onto a needle and flax thread. "And make it quick, I have to get this dress finished today." 

"You made that?" Deimos wished he could take it back the instant it left his mouth, incredulous tone and all. But...the sight of Discord -- _Discord_ -- sitting there, sewing patterns of colored seeds onto a dress, was just too much for him to pass up without comment. 

She sent him another glare before turning her attention back to the seeds. "Do I look like Mrs. Happy Homemaker to you, idiot? Mortals made this dress -- like I'd ever waste my time. It's destined to be a family heirloom and I want it to be an unlucky one; takes a personal touch." She jabbed the needle into the neckline of the dress. "Now say what you want or buzz off, I have to do cross stitch next and I don't need the distraction." 

That boggled the mind on many levels, but Deimos managed to keep his mouth shut. He wasn't comfortable just standing there though, well, he wasn't comfortable period, but standing around, shifting from one foot to the other, trying to find something to do with his hands just made him that much more nervous. So he sat on the bed, just the edge really, perching there gingerly so as not to disrupt her sewing. 

"I'm just, you know, curious about something," he said, watching her sew strings of blue seeds around the neckline of the dress for lack of anything better to focus on. 

"Uh-huh," she didn't look up, "Strife." 

"_Where_?" Deimos shot right off the bed, looking around frantically. Discord's snort of laughter quickly brought his attention back to her. She was still sewing the seeds into the dress, but now she was grinning in malicious amusement. 

"You did that on purpose!" he accused. 

"Yeah, and? You're paranoid, Deimos; makes it fun to push your buttons." 

"Bitch," he muttered under his breath, crossing his arms and dropping back down onto the bed, deliberately making the mattress bounce. 

"Watch it!" Discord snarled. "I almost dropped a stitch." 

"Like I care." Deimos shrugged dismissively. 

"You'll care when I tie you up and divide your mind again," she said, pulling the thread harder than was likely necessary. 

Deimos didn't like reminder of that time when she'd done that to him, it still made his skin crawl. But two could play at this game. "You know, Discord, you seem to like tying me up. Something I oughtta know about?" 

"Eww!" she looked up at him in disgust. "Like I'd ever lower myself!" 

Deimos grinned. "That's not what the other gods say; they say you, uh, 'lower yourself' just fine." 

Discord's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I can split your personality so many different ways you'll need an abacus to keep track of them." 

His grin widened. "Yeah? Well, you afraid of bugs, Discord? Wanna get better acquainted with a few?" He waggled his fingers menacingly. 

She drew back a little, but she continued to glare. "A personality for every emotion, Deimos." 

"Spiders and roaches, crawling up under your dress." 

"One for every thought," she snapped, although she didn't seem to be able to repress a shudder. 

"Ants running through your hair, all over your scalp and into your ears." Deimos leaned forward, grinning maniacally. 

"I'll make every personality think you're all some kind of Love God!" 

Deimos couldn't help recoiling a bit at that, but he wasn't going to admit defeat. "Centipedes, Discord, the big ones! Scurrying up your legs with those tiny little feet!" 

She gave another, far more visible shudder, but determination shown in her expression now. "You'll be prancing around in white and pink, tossing flowers and reading love sonnets!" 

"Flies and gnats, crawling into your eyes!" 

"Hundreds of voices in your head, all arguing about how to bring peace to the world!" 

Deimos leaned in once more, far closer this time, and pointed at Discord. "Maggots." It was little more than a whisper. "Crawling under your pretty skin, munching away." He let the very tip of his finger graze her chest. 

Discord shrieked and jerked away, rubbing at her skin as though trying to dislodge something invisible touching her. Deimos giggled aloud, clapping his hands in triumph. He hadn't even done anything, not with his power anyway, just the power of suggestion. 

"I'll make you propose to _Zeus_," Discord hissed at him, still rubbing her arms with a nauseated look. "You'll beg to be his new boy-toy!" 

"Oh, yuk!" Deimos drew back sharply, cringing at the visuals he got from that. "That's so totally _sick_!" He shuddered and even if it looked melodramatic, the disgust he felt was very real. 

Discord sneered at him and now she was the one looking triumphant. Unable to think up any more creepy crawly ideas while trying to get over what she'd suggested, Deimos simply stuck his tongue out at her. Discord wrinkled her nose at him in return. Tongue still sticking out, Deimos crossed his eyes. Keeping her nose wrinkled, she widened her eyes to the point that they seemed to bulge out. He puffed out his cheeks. She bared her front teeth like a squirrel. 

They stared at each other for a moment. Deimos, unsurprisingly, broke first, snickering under his breath. Discord snorted in amusement. Then both collapsed, laughing and giggling loudly. 

Minutes later, some of the seeds were scattered on the coverlet as Deimos falling onto the bed had tipped over one of the bowls. He lay there now, still giggling. Discord was lying on top of the dress, the material crumpled beneath the black leather of her outfit. She had her head propped up on her hands, elbows braced on the mattress, and she was grinning at him as he kept giggling. 

"Not that this isn't fun, but I _do_ have things to do," she finally said, nudging a large blue seed with her left elbow. "So give, what're you doing here?" 

Deimos made himself stop giggling; thinking of the reason he'd come here in the first place was a big help in driving away the laughter. "Tell me about Strife," he said, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Discord shrugged. "Tall god, about your height, black hair, blue eyes, annoying laugh -- a lot like you actually." 

"Not what I meant and you know it," Deimos said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I'm taller." 

"Not without those heels on your boots," she said sarcastically, then went on before Deimos could say anything in return. "He's about nine hundred years old, if you don't count the fact that he was dead for two years. Seems the same as he always was though, so I guess we don't count it. Didn't start working for Ares until about twenty or thirty years ago. Don't know what he did before that." 

"History is nice and all," Deimos said impatiently, pushing himself up into a true sitting position, "but what about _him_, not what he did or does, just, you know, _him_." 

Sighing theatrically, she sat up as well, brushing a few seeds off her chest. "He's nuts, about as crazy as you." 

Deimos snorted. "Oh, please. I'm perfectly sane." 

Discord matched his snort with one of her own. "Yeah, whatever. He used to be a lot more like you; a total screw-up." 

"Hey!" He picked up a couple of the stray seeds and tossed it at her. "You screw up just as much as me." 

"I usually screw up _because_ of you." She shook her head, trying to dislodge the seeds from the thick, black mass of hair curling about her shoulders. "I used to have the same problem with him. Until he learned." 

"Learned?" Deimos cocked his head to the side curiously. 

Discord shrugged as she began gathering the seeds back into the bowls. "How to be faster, sneakier, more subtle -- and _there's_ something you could stand to learn." 

"I know subtle," he said confidently. A confidence that vanished when she laughed. 

"Oh, please! Face it, Deimos, you're about as subtle as a seige engine. No, as much as I hate to admit it, Strife was getting good before that crazy goddess stabbed him." Frowning down at two of the bowls she began exchanging seeds between them, still talking as she worked. "He almost killed Hercules a couple times, you know, and that took some talent. Not that _I_ couldn't do it, I've just had other projects to work on." 

Deimos rolled his eyes but didn't say anything, not wanting to insult her before she'd revealed anything interesting. "Yeah? And?" he prompted impatiently, fingers twining themselves in and out of the bed coverlet. 

"And what?" Discord repositioned the dress on her lap and picked up the needle and thread again. "He's a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, knows more ways to kill than I can think of -- and that was always so weird about him. Killing is fun and all, but he spent his spare time figuring out all new ways to do it, even talked about offing a god a time or two." She shrugged again. "Not that he was serious, I mean, who hasn't thought about that before, right?" 

"Um...right," Deimos agreed, and although his voice was a bit higher-pitched than normal, at least it didn't come out as the pathetic squeak he'd thought it might. Her words made something inside him grow cold. Fear was starting to creep up, like hundreds of little legs, scrambling up his arms and back. 

She started to thread a seed on her needle, then stopped with a thoughtful frown. "Although...since Strife came back, he _does_ seem a little different somehow. More serious, focused, I guess. Who knows, maybe being...wherever he was the past couple years actually made him crazy enough to try that now." Discord laughed at the idea and somehow Deimos managed to conjure up a sickly smile, but he couldn't even force out his usual nervous giggle. Sound seemed to have locked up in his throat. 

"Well, I guess we'll just have to wait and see what psycho-boy does, hmm?" She smiled sweetly at him, then made a shooing motion with her free hand. "Now go away, you're blocking my light." 

Deimos had to pry his fingers out of the coverlet before sliding off the bed. The cold fear working its way through him made his legs feel wobbly and his hands numb. He tried to push it back, he was the God of Fear after all and he should've had _some_ control over it, but he couldn't get a grip on it, or on anything else for that matter. His thoughts wouldn't stop conjuring up scenario after scenario of how Strife could kill him without anyone ever knowing what had really happened. It was enough to make him whimper with fear, if he'd been able to force out a sound. 

"Close the door on your way out." She was still using that same sweet tone. Too sweet, it suddenly registered with Deimos. He was suspicious of everyone these days, true, but knowing that didn't stop him from looking back at Discord, staring at her closely. And his eyes narrowed when he saw the way the corners of her red lips had turned upwards. It wasn't a full smirk, but it was definitely in the vacinity. 

He'd just been played. How much, Deimos didn't know, but she knew his biggest fear right now and she'd used it to freak him out under the guise of answering his questions. If it hadn't scared him so much, he might've admired that. Instead he just got a bit of petty revenge. 

There was no light source on Olympus, illumination just _existed_. Gods could just choose to turn it on or off at their convenience. With a low titter of amusement, Deimos exercised that option now, plunging the room into absolute darkness just as Discord began a stitch. 

"You little bastard!" she yelled, but Deimos was already vanishing. 

__________________________ 

All his options were used up. Discord had been his last resort and even if she'd deliberately frightened him, Deimos didn't sense that she was really lying either. Strife was likely as dangerous as she'd made him sound. That only left Deimos with a couple choices. He could sit around and wait for either Ares to kick him out for failing his job or for Strife to kill him, maybe both, or he could take matters into his own hands. He'd been avoiding Strife as much as possible for sanity's sake, but that was just putting off dealing with him, and when it came down to it, Deimos would have to do that. The only question was, on whose terms? 

He already knew he was practically useless to his father at the moment, the way he was, and Ares wasn't known for his patience. If he waited much longer either Ares or Strife would act and the situtation would be even more out of Deimos' control than it already was. He didn't have a very good grasp on things now, but what he did have was maybe a slight chance to be one step ahead of events, of Strife. 

Deimos liked power and prestige as much as the next ambitious god, but he was also well aware of the fact that he wasn't exactly the sharpest sword in the phalanx. If anyone said that to his face he'd make them pay, kill them painfully if they were mortal, but that didn't stop it from being true. Held up against Cupid for comparison, he was a certified genius, he was certain of that, but being thrown in with the likes of Discord and Ares had brought him face to face with the plain, unvarnished fact that he just wasn't a great intellect amongst the aggression gods. And he'd been all right with that for the couple years he'd been here. The jobs Ares had given him didn't often require a whole lot of brain work, just cunning and a touch of cruelty, and Deimos had plenty of that. He'd figured that eventually he'd grow into the job, learn it better, and it would all work out because Ares really hadn't had anyone else to turn to for the position, had he? Cupid would be a complete wash out -- not that Aphrodite would ever allow him to work for Ares anyway -- so that had left Deimos. Except, that no longer held true, not with Strife back. 

So, if Strife was intent on having his old job, if he was maneuvering Deimos into a position to fail, then...why not just give in before it came down to that? Quitting wasn't anything new to Deimos, it was just another word for failure and he'd grown used to that over the past couple years. And maybe this time it might save his life; Deimos had enough smarts to see that. He was already on the verge of being tossed out by Ares and his nerves were shot. He was ineffective in his job and even mortals were starting to see him as a joke; Strife had as good as won already, so conceding the game to him wouldn't be so bad. Not when the consequences of not doing so likely led to Deimos' "accidental" death somewhere not too far down the line. 

It was a depressingly easy decision to make. Deimos wanted to live and this would probably guarantee it -- he'd toss in some begging for his life, just to be sure -- but it didn't make him feel good about it. He'd done his best on this job and even if it wasn't good enough, it hurt to think that he was so easily thrown aside. And he wasn't foolish enough to think he'd have a home anywhere near Ares once he stepped down. This was the ultimate failure, not just admitting defeat but actively participating in it; Ares wouldn't forgive that. Deimos was finished in War and he had nowhere else to go. He refused to go back to Aphrodite's home; he'd never belonged there in the first place and he saw that clearly now. He wouldn't have a job anymore, no home and no place on Olympus. He'd probably be stuck hanging around in the mortal world like so many of the other young gods without one of the Twelve to pledge loyalty too. But at least he'd be alive. 

__________________________ 

Some things held true as much for gods as mortals, one being that if you were actively searching for something -- or someone -- important, you were guaranteed not to find it. Strife had been a constant, frightening presence in Deimos' life for months now, unshakable and unpredictable in his appearances, but almost always _there_. But now that Deimos was looking for him, Strife was nowhere to be found. 

It'd taken Deimos days to work up the courage to actually talk to Strife. Just the idea of it, of approaching his dark, calculating cousin sent chills through him, made him wring his hands and titter in extreme nervousness. Even after he'd made the decision, absolutely firm now in his determination to end this, to face his hunter, the next time he'd seen Strife, Deimos had panicked and disappeared. He'd berated himself for it later, but it'd become an almost instinctive reaction by this time, an ingrained response to the deadly threat Strife represented. He knew he had to act to end that threat, he _had_ to, but it was hard to go against his survival instincts and he failed the next few times, just as he had the first. 

But not this time. Now he was intent on confronting Strife, and even if he was frightened beyond anything a god should experience, heart trying to beat its way out of his chest, cold sweat trickling down his back beneath his leathers; he _would_ do this. He'd do whatever he had to if it would save his life. 

Of course that would require actually finding Strife, which wasn't happening. Deimos had been all over Olympus and most of Ares' temples without turning up one sign of his cousin. It was possible Strife was out on a job, more than possible, really, but Deimos had also checked in on Xena and Hercules and hadn't seen Strife around. He supposed he could check with Ares' warlords and a few of the kings, but Deimos was starting to lose the courage he'd dredged up to do this. He'd spent an entire day hopping from one place to the next, determined to force this confrontation. It hadn't happened though and he was tired from the constant use of power for transportation, and the effort it took to keep up his determination. But he knew if he gave up now, he might never find backbone enough to try it again. He had to press on, but...how? And where? Searching amongst mortals was a long shot at best and what was to say he wouldn't miss Strife entirely between jumping from one place to another? Deimos thought that it might be better to just hang around his father's Olympian temple until Strife returned. He knew it would be close to torture, just sitting there _waiting_ for Strife to show up, nothing to do but imagine over and over how badly it could go, but it seemed the only sure way of finding Strife. He'd just have to hope he wasn't too scared to stick around whenever Strife finally did show up. 

Decision made, Deimos found himself, unsurprisingly, reluctant to act on it. He didn't get much time to himself anymore, not since leaving Aphrodite's temple. He usually had Discord breathing over his shoulder or some mortal or another he was supposed to be dealing with, but now, standing alone in one of Ares' smaller temples, Deimos let himself savor the aloneness, just a little. It was a voluntary thing now, making a choice to stand there in this deserted place, hearing nothing but the occasional chirp of a bird from outside as they settled in for the night, the growing chorus of crickets as twilight descended. He could choose to do that now, to enjoy it, but he knew that soon it would be out of his hands. Once thrown out of War, he'd be all on his own and then he'd probably crave company. Right now though, this was kind of nice. A distraction before he'd have to face up to his fears. 

Movement caught his eye and Deimos yelped, jumping back away from the wall. A moment later he laughed, a bit nervously but with true humor. It was just his own reflection. An old shield was hung on the wall, spears crossed above it. It hadn't seen a good polish in a while, but it was still untarnished enough to show him his own face. 

With daylight a memory and night fast approaching, there was little light from the nearby windows, so Deimos flicked his fingers at a torch on the column nearest him. It flared to life in a burst of orange light, briefly giving Deimos' reflection a harsh tint, but then it died down some, crackling into dim illumination, just enough to let Deimos see himself clearly. 

He didn't spend a whole lot of his time primping in front of a mirror, unlike Cupid who couldn't face anyone until he'd had his requisite three hours in the morning adoring his own reflection. Deimos was well aware there wasn't much to look at where he was concerned, his brother had told him that often enough, as well as commenting on his lack of fashion sense, but it didn't bother him. Good looks weren't required for his job and he'd known that on an instinctual level long before Ares had called him to War. Now though.... Deimos stepped back towards the shield, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head thoughtfully as he started at his own face, small shadows dancing across his cheeks and eyes as the torch flickered. His looks on an aesthetic level still didn't concern him, but the face itself he saw reflected there, that was something to consider. 

Just how much _did_ he look like Strife? Not much, from his point of view, but he was probably biased because he knew others, gods and mortals alike, saw a heavy resemblance. But Deimos just didn't see it, not really. Blond to raven hair, tanned to pale, and his eyes...the color was similar, as pale blue as sheets of ice topping a mountain, but on Strife they were just as cold as that ice, and Deimos couldn't see that in his own eyes, even as the shadows moved across them. Maybe if he made a couple changes...? 

He was tired, but not drained, so the small flicker of power cost him little. It shimmered over him in a smooth blue bubble, stripping away brown leather and fringe. In its place, black leather slid over him, wrapping around his arms, slithering down his torso and thighs. The coolness of metal rings pressed against his skin and he shivered at the sensation. It all felt...weird. His normal outfit left his knees bare, a freedom he'd always taken for granted. This costume, what Strife wore on a daily basis, it was constricting. Neck to toe it restrained him, squeaking in protest as he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Clenching and unclenching his fingers, he found the constriction of leather between his fingers unwelcome. Deimos wore his own gauntlets low, protecting his hands, but he left his fingers free to move. Strife's outfit didn't do that and Deimos didn't care for the feeling. The whole thing felt odd, and from what he could see, looked just as strange. 

Looking back up at the shield, Deimos frowned at his reflection. It did look wrong. It didn't look at all like Strife standing there, light flickering behind him. The black leather worked with his tan, but it made the pale blond of his hair stand out like a beacon. It was harsh in all the wrong ways. Reaching up -- hesitating when he saw the black leather against his hands in the reflection -- he slid his fingers through his hair. It was a slow movement, accompanied by a touch of power. As his hair sprang back up in the wake of his hands, it was inky black and inches longer. Shaking his head to dispel the lingering tickle of power, he dropped his hands and stared at himself again. 

It was still...off. Black hair and black leather; it was Strife, right? So why did it still look wrong? Maybe it really did all come down to the eyes. Deimos just couldn't put that in his own eyes, that wicked, chilly look. It had to be something that either came naturally to Strife or something picked up through experience. Deimos wished he'd have the time to gain that experience, but it wasn't going to happen. 

He sighed, long and drawn out. He'd managed to waste a few minutes here and put off the inevitable, but he couldn't do that forever, not if he wanted to get this done before he chickened out, again. Staring at himself a couple moments more, Deimos abruptly stuck out his tongue, giggling when his reflection did the same. Maybe it was silly, but it felt...normal, and he needed that. 

"Doesn't work, you know." 

The shriek froze in his throat as Deimos spun around, instinctively shoving himself back against the wall. The shield, dislodged by his movement, tumbled to the stone floor. Landing on its edge, it rolled away, spinning out into a wide half circle before coming to rest with a loud clatter -- right between him and Strife. 

Strife stood there, in the middle of the room where the moving shadows were near their deepest. Only the paleness of his face stood out, a beacon in the darkness. His expression was unreadable as he looked at Deimos, arms crossed before him, weight resting back on one foot. He looked so...normal, standing there, and maybe to a mortal he'd seem harmless. But Deimos could see Strife for what he was, a predator who'd finally cornered his prey, and was waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. 

"C--Cuz, h--h--hiya," Deimos said weakly, his voice high-pitched and trembling as he tried to press further into the wall. He wanted to run, to disappear, to go _anywhere_ Strife wasn't, but he managed to clamp down on the impulse and shove it away. He had to do this and do it _now_. He wouldn't have the courage for another try. "I was just--" his voice cracked and he swallowed hard, licking too-dry lips. "I was just, um, just...just...." He couldn't explain what he'd been doing because he didn't know himself. Why was he standing there dressed like Strife? He'd been playing around, not doing anything for a reason, but he knew how it would look, how it _had_ to look to anyone observing him, especially Strife. He was in Strife's rightful position, and now it would seem like he'd been trying to replace Strife in every way possible. Fear clutched hard at Deimos' heart and he babbled in response, words pouring out in a poor defense of unexplainable actions. 

"I didn't mean anything by it, cuz, really! It's not what it looks like! I was just, uh, well, I wanted to see...but it didn't work, and I dunno what's different, and--" Deimos cut himself off before the babble could go off into completely inane territory. Another hard swallow and he forced himself back on track, saying what he had to. "Look, it's all yours, okay? You're Ares' number one dude and I'm just gonna step right on aside and let you have it, 'k?" 

"Is that right?" Strife's eyebrows rose and the corner of his mouth quirked up. He looked...amused, and that scared Deimos more than if Strife had crowed in triumph at Deimos' capitulation. 

Deimos nodded frantically, hoping to placate his cousin. "Ares brought me in to take your place -- but I'm _not_ taking it, not now that you're back, promise! I--I suck at this job, okay? I totally blow assignments and I can't figure things out and it all screwed up and it supposed to be your gig anyway so I'm giving it back, see? So you don't have to, you know, do...anything." 

"Really?" Strife prompted, and that tiny smile was threatening to grow. 

"Yeah. I mean, I know you were gonna do, um, things," Deimos winced as his voice broke on that word, but he kept going anyway, "but now I'm giving in and you don't gotta--" 

"What things?" It was a smirk now and the genuine humor there made Deimos' skin crawl. Why would Strife be asking unless he got off on scaring Deimos even more? But if that's what Strife wanted to hear, maybe it'd make him happy and he'd let Deimos go with his life. It was something to hope for anyway. 

"Uh, you know, things. Make me give up the job, 'cause I already am," Deimos said, his voice still too high pitched, but he couldn't do anything about that, or about the way his legs began to tremble when Strife suddenly dropped his arms and began to walk towards him. "You were gonna, um, tor--torture me, or something, 'till I gave." He was trying not to hyperventilate, watching his cousin come closer and closer, torchlight glinting off silver rings, tinting pale skin. Strife's movements were so fluid and effortless, not like the jerky, uncoordinated mess Deimos always seemed to be. "Kill me, I guess." It ended on a whisper as Strife stopped directly in front of him. 

It was an odd thing to notice when Deimos was too terrified to move much less think, but Discord had been right, without the heels in his own boots, he and Strife were the same height. Eye to eye, noses almost touching they were so close, Deimos' vision was filled with pale skin and cool eyes, and when Strife spoke, his breath was a warm contrast, moving over Deimos' lips. 

"Torture and death, huh?" 

Deimos gasped when warm hands suddenly slid up over his cheeks, long fingers cupping his face. A tingle moved over him and Deimos didn't have to try and look to see what had happened, he could feel air moving over his once again bared knees and hair no longer tickled his ears; Strife had put his appearance back to normal. 

"Better," Strife said, but he didn't move, leaving his hands there, their warmth like a brand on Deimos' skin. "Guess I could do all that crap to you, cuz," he said with a sigh, one eyebrow lifting slightly, "but did you ever stop and think that maybe all I really wanted is to do this?" He leaned in, breaching the scant inch separating them, and covered Deimos' lips with his own. 

Everything seemed to freeze, or maybe that was just on Deimos' side because he could feel Strife shifting, pressing closer to him, but he couldn't make himself move, or even think. Strife was kissing him, eyes closed, dark lashes resting on pale cheeks, the scent of leather and old blood magnified between them, and Deimos could do nothing but stare and feel. 

Strife's lips were soft and it was a mild shock because nothing about Strife seemed soft at all. He'd always seemed as hard and cold as one of his own daggers to Deimos. But...he wasn't. The pads of his fingers pressing against Deimos' cheekbones, the side of Strife's nose brushing against his, and those lips, caressing his, all so incredibly soft. Deimos was hit by the sudden urge to open up against those lips, to lick Strife, taste him, but Strife was already drawing back. Not too far, because Deimos could still feel the faint brush of lips against his. Strife opened his eyes. 

Deimos gasped, just a soft breath of air in the non-existent space between them. He could see it now, see it so clearly. Strife's eyes weren't cold, not anymore than Strife himself and Deimos could feel how hot he really was, fingers stroking along his cheeks. It was all illusion, the ice in those pale eyes, just a thin sheet covering so much more. 

"Oh," Deimos whispered. 

And Strife smiled. 

Fin 

__________________________________________ 

© 1998-2003, Erin. 


End file.
